


Hunted

by Pastel_Macaroon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Just lots of mythical creatures, M/M, Originally Posted Elsewhere, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Supernatural Elements, Vampire Irene Adler, Werewolf John Watson, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29375001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pastel_Macaroon/pseuds/Pastel_Macaroon
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, supernatural expert. Or at least that's what he had been, until a man by the name of John Watson stumbled into 221B screaming that his wife had been murdered by a werewolf. Now, with a shattered reputation and a rogue werewolf on the loose in London, what does the once legendary man do with a freshly turned lycanthrope puppy that won't leave his side?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	1. Nightmare On Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hello! I have a Wattpad account but more people read my stuff here-  
> I have four pre-written chapters that I will be posting in the next few days so keep an eye out for them!  
> I hope you enjoy this mess.

Sherlock Holmes.

The supernatural soldier, keeping the streets of London free from dangers. Incapable humans everywhere applaud his work, seeing as they live in fear. Once, werewolves and vampires stalked alleys, ghosts and ghouls grabbed at hanging goods, mermaids and sirens swam through sewers...

Complete chaos!

The mostly human population lived in fear; which paranormal beings were to be trusted and which were to be jailed? Now, a difference could be told.

Sherlock Holmes, a young boy, had risen from the shadows and assessed various cases. His supernatural studies left every dangerous beings behind bars. A fine eye for detail meant that the difference between faked and true crimes by creatures of the night. Recent years left many officers stumped; was this a paranormal or human crime? Holmes could tell right away.

"The claw marks shouldn't splinter like that,"

"I do believe the strange pile of dust was not ordinary dust,"

"Why would a mermaid leave trails of dead fish at a crime scene?"

Small details that only a true professional could pick up on. Some began theorising he himself wasn't human, but a quick DNA test put an end to those articles. The mystery of Holmes' excellence would stay just that.

A mystery.

Most people didn't care what he was or wasn't, they were finally safe. No unstable supernatural beings were allowed on ordinary streets, and for those who were perfectly safe, they had justice. All was fair and calm. Crimes were no longer unsolved and the wrong were no longer accused. Speaking of crime, the once common occurrence was now a rare thing to behold. All thanks to one single man. It was quite a miracle, really. Was he a gift from the Heavens? Sent to fix all the wrong that both human and paranormal alike were guilty of? Perhaps. Many thought this perfect reputation would lay unscathed until the day of his death; the man was a miracle, after all.

Until the case of John Watson came crashing down on 221B like a hurricane.

-

Early hours of the morning left the birds chirping at Sherlock's window as he sipped a cup of tea. Mrs Hudson was babbling away on the phone to one of her old lady friend. The night previous had been her weekly Bingo night, and there had been some argument over cheating. Such a mundane thing made him roll his eyes and toss dark curls in an unimpressed manner. Icy blue eyes stared at the mist that hung from his window as he gave a wistful sigh. Cases had been quite scarce recently, and involved no true skill to solve.

Deathly bored, he deposited a now empty cup into the sink with a clatter. Mrs Hudson gave him a hiss to be quiet as he slouched back into his chair with a vague smirk crossing delicate lips. Heavy lidded eyes found themselves threatening closure; the great Sherlock Holmes was falling asleep from his lack of interest in whatever was currently going on. Yet suddenly he was jolting up, any signs of sleep gone as a thunderstorm erupted downstairs. 

Mrs Hudson - still on the phone - tilted her head and mouthed at Sherlock to go see who it was. Strolling down the steps, he put on the famous coat he sported everywhere he went.

"I'm coming, I'm coming! I need a door left after this, so please don't break it," he muttered sarcastically, undoing the latch on the door. Violently it was thrown open as a grey haired man crashed into him, pushing him against a wall.

" _My wife's dead!_ " screamed the stranger, echoing the words over and over before moving on to something new. "My neighbours are dead, my street's dead, _everyone's dead!"_

Sherlock's eyes widened and the first thing he felt was _excitement._ A case. An actually interesting case. But that excitement soon turned to terror. 

A whole street had just been killed. This wasn't just one murder case. _A whole street._

"Shut up!" Sherlock moved the man so that he was the one in control. "You need to calm down and _shut up,"_ he hissed. If anyone was to overhear this man and his psychotic screeching, his reputation would die. Although how long would it take the press to find an entirely dead street..? No, not long at all. Sherlock would have to work at a cheetah's pace to solve this and save everything he'd worked for. The man in his grasp mumbled that his wife was dead, again. Clearly in shock, as one would be. Sherlock wasn't in the mood for acting kind, however, and gave him a sharp kick. When his foot came into contact with the other's shin there was a revolting squelching sound, and the cuff of his trousers felt soggy.

Looking down, he found blood. Fountains of it. How had he not noticed the metallic stench in the air before? The man in his grasp inhaled sharply and nearly blacked out. Muttering a curse, Sherlock began dragging him up the stairs. He could hear Mrs Hudson gasp. She'd finally put the phone down, at least. The stranger in his arms grumbled as he came back to a better state of life. 

Sherlock gave up with dragging and then picked him up, placing him on his chair and hoping that he wouldn't bleed on it. Groggily, the stranger looked around the room.

"What's your name?"

"John.. Watson.." he slurred. Sherlock was left to wonder how much blood he'd really lost whilst stumbling here.

Sherlock asked where he lived, who his wife was, what had killed her... and so on. John mumbled his way through the questions, too tired to currently be grieving. Adrenaline had slowly faded, only to leave his body an aching mess of bruises and wounds. Possibly even broken bones in some places. He was a doctor, after all.

"What did you see, again?" Sherlock broke him out of his daze with a sharp click of a pen and a stern emotionless voice.

"Werewolf," he said firmly.

"But last night wasn't a full moon. That's next week," grumbled Sherlock through gritted teeth. Either John was delusional or this was faked. Or was something else going on here?

"It was a werewolf," John repeated, his face firm. "It threw me through a window. People can't do that,"

"Some could," he looked up from his notepad to see John. There were some clean cuts on his face, as well as tears in his clothes. Perhaps this part was true. But there was still doubt about this being a lycanthrope.

"It killed the whole street, Sherlock," John suddenly leaned forwards and gripped the chair's side. "Could a human really do that? In one night?"

Sherlock suddenly looked doubtful. He'd originally been quite sure this man was simply hallucinating, or delusional, or something along that line. All of the dangerous lycanthropes had been contained or put in safe houses if they could learn to control it, as had any other supernatural. But now it seemed they'd missed a crucial one.

Timidly, Mrs Hudson walked to them.

"Sherlock?" she whispered. "There.. there are some people that want to see you,"

Slowly, he got up. Remembering everything good he'd done for London, and the people. It was in chaos, and he'd given the people order. He'd given them justice. He gave them what they deserved. Now they would all turn on him. But it was just a street. This wasn't all his fault. No one could have predicted that something like this could happen. No one! Not even the great Sherlock Holmes. Shouldn't that mean something? That it was unpredictable, or.. or that...

Couldn't they just appreciate the work he'd done? The hardships he had faced all for them? No! A mass murder meant he could never be trusted with anything ever again. The people were all so.. so selfish! The handle was cold in his hands. A sharp clicking was to be heard as his hands trembled and opened the door.

Cameras flashed in his eyes and blinded him, reporters shoved microphones in his face. Sobbing families screamed abuse as people opened their news channels right at his doorstep. Newspapers were thrown at his head, and in blurs he read snatches of bold print. Quickly he realised this was not just one street.

This had been the murder of multiple, in places far and wide. They spread from London to English villages, even in some parts of Wales. He most certainly couldn't have foreseen anything on this scale. So why did they expect him to?

"Mister Holmes, is it true you hate the supernaturals?" asked one reporter.

"What? No! I have fought for their righ-"

"Well, we've heard this was an attack staged by you to make them look bad!"

It seemed that rumours had already spread far and wide. Reporters told their own theories and shouted for their cameramen to come closer. And that was when the famous Sherlock Holmes snapped and shut the door. Outside, the crowds continued to scream.

In a moment his reputation had died.

Back upstairs, Mrs Hudson had turned on the television. A still groggy John and her were watching closely, as a young blonde woman babbled on about how this was unjust of Holmes to do such a thing and kill innocent people.

"I think I can hear the sirens coming now! Yes, that's right, the once great Sherlock Holmes is due to be arrested,"

Blue lights filled the windows and left Sherlock to stare in awe. Everyone believed he had done this. And that it was his own fault. His life had gone downhill in less than an hour.

And now they were breaking down the door.

Sherlock Holmes.

London's most wanted.


	2. Silence In The Dark

"Sherlock, turn around," said a familiar voice; stern and serious.

The man did so, hands raised. A look of shock crossed his face when he realised this was his _friend._

Greg Lestrade.

"Hello, Holmes. Things been a bit rough?"

"Lestrade, Listen-" hurried Sherlock, staying in place so as not to make it seem as if he'd bolt from the building. "I didn't have anything to do with this. I'd never-"

"I know that, you moron," Greg rolled his eyes, crossed his arms and gave a deep laugh. "If I didn't I'd have had you in cuffs. You're a demon in disguise, Sherlock, but you aren't what they think," a short pause enveloped the room. Not even an antique clock dared tick. Lestrade looked around Sherlock to the man in the chair. "Who's that?"

"I'm Watson," he said quite clearly, before stuttering and looking confused. "No. I'm John. John Watson,"

Sherlock quickly gestured to the blood on the floor, receiving an understanding nod from Lestrade. Watson - John, did look quite pale after all. 

"So what shall you do with us?" Sherlock asked eventually.

"Fake arrest," he said proudly. "then you're gonna 'escape',"

"Oh! But won't that get you in trouble?" exclaimed Mrs Hudson, who was currently a bystander to all that was going on.

Greg simply shrugged. "I guess it's something that has to happen," Mrs Hudson exclaimed again, giving him a hug and praising him on his bravery. Sherlock huffed at the display of emotion in front of him as John chuckled from behind. "Ah- what do we uh.. do with him?" Greg nodded at John, quite flustered from Mrs Hudson's fussing.

"He's to come with me as an accomplice. He's my only witness,"

Greg had no true choice but to oblige. Sherlock's wrists were trapped in cold icy rings of confinement, and John was simply dragged along behind. He was beginning to gain a right state of mind once again, but wasn't good enough to wonder where he was going. Camera's flashed their bright sunlight into passing eyes as both men were shoved into a police vehicle. Greg was given more praise by officers, who struggled to keep the crowd away from the car. Beside him, John whimpered pitifully. It was quite an animalistic sound.

Not worrying to Sherlock at the time, but looking back, it should have been.

The front seat was crawled into by a woman decked in padding and a high-vis jacket. The way she looked into the rear view mirror was startlingly familiar to Sherlock. Those eyes... they were a mischievous ruby red, flaked with black diamonds. They glinted and glowed when the blue lights were turned on in an intoxicating way, leaving Sherlock to wonder who this was. In a startling moment, she put her foot down and let the car roar to life. A cackle escaped blood soaked cupid lips as the waves of people jumped to the side as a manic BMW flew past. 

"Miss me, Sherlock?" grinned the woman, showing pointed teeth.

"Irene!" yelped the detective.

"Good thing it was cloudy today,"

"Did Greg know-?"

"Yep!" she swerved around a corner, leaving John to have his head smashed against the window. "He didn't tell just in case we weren't over each other. I'm over you, at least. Got a lady! Who needs men, eh?"

"Good for you,"

The rest of the ride was filled with Irene nearly crashing, John hitting his head, and Sherlock asking quite personal questions. It was also filled with John being very, very confused. He was starting to feel a bit sick with all the slamming into things and being thrown from side to side. He'd already been quite pale previously, and by now he was like snow. Not as if the other two noticed. They were too busy reminiscing over 'old times'. Irene did most of the talking, flashing pearly white fangs; a beautiful contrast with heart shaped lips. John found himself running his tongue over his own very normal teeth - although he could have sworn that his teeth had never been quite this sharp previously. Most likely just an overactive imagination. 

-

They kept hurrying away from London, eventually reaching a more green area; following back roads to hopefully avoid any suspecting eyes. The conversation had died to the occasional mumble, leaving a now tired John to get some peace. Erratic driving had been calmed to a decent pace, because a speeding police car is just the slightest bit suspicious, isn't it? His forehead rested on cool glass, breath leaving marks on the window, revealing fingerprints that hadn't been cleaned away. Scenery flew past them; trees with outstretched branches trying to grip the vehicle before it got away. Out of the city, skies that were briefly blue now rapidly darkened to wonderous pinks and oranges; candyfloss clouds happily reflecting the same colours. John hadn't seen a view like this for years. Eyelids found themselves fluttering shut without any assistance.

"Awe, he's cute," teased Irene. "New boyfriend?" 

Sherlock found himself rolling his eyes again. "He's going to wake up with a fever,"

Irene looked rather confused at this statement, but then took note of a scent she'd previously ignored. "Why didn't you clean the wound? It smells like dog," she grumbled, looking for a bottle of perfume from her pocket. 

"Didn't have time," Sherlock glanced at the other's leg, noticing swelling and redness. It was hard to tell how deep it was from the rugged edges. The pattern suggested flesh had been torn off by something sharp, but done inexpertly so it ripped rather than sliced. Perhaps a knife? No, there were the remains of multiple puncture wounds in areas. Almost as if they were from teeth... had this man been bitten?

Irene sprayed her mixture of raspberry and blackberry 'Forest Fantasies' liberally, inhaling the scent with a sharp toothed smile, eyes closing in bliss. Sherlock hoisted his scarf to cover his nose and mouth better, finding the smell ever so slightly unbearable in this quantity. In the front seat, she gave a giggle. Sherlock had never been one for strong scents, preferring faint, familiar ones: tea, soap, grass, tobacco...

The car quite suddenly came to a halt. Sherlock looked puzzled.

"Follow the path until you get kidnapped," smirked the vampire, unlocking the doors. 

"But what do I do with-"

"Carry him, stupid. You're going to have to look after him, after all,"

Sherlock hesitated, deciding instead to wake him up. John stirred, grumbling and glaring. Sherlock gestured to the now open door, before stepping outside. Darkness had now enveloped the world, now making previously unsettling things absolutely terrifying. Still riddled with sleep, John slurred a goodbye to Irene and crawled out. Stumbling on his own legs, he fell into the mud. Irene grinned at Sherlock from the front seat, giving a delicate wave before driving away. Finding his eyes rolling yet again, the detective helped him out of the mud. John spluttered, leaning against him. 

"Does it hurt?" asked Sherlock, keeping John upright but holding him at arms length.

"Yes," he said through gritted teeth, eyes shut. "Of course it hurts,"

Sherlock wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he began walking. John was left on his own, unable to keep up. Holmes was too busy thinking about everything to notice. 

Eyes struggled to adjust in the dark, as the two men went along at their very different paces. John had began feeling incredibly lightheaded again, leaving smudges of an obsidian darkness to swirl around like a whirlpool and taunt him. Shadows leapt to life and smirked, poking at this useless broken man with grey hair and a dead wife. He had no life to live anymore; just some help to solve a mystery. He was tempted to call out to Sherlock, hating being left behind and not wanting to be stuck. Even from so far away, he could hear the detective babbling to himself - although occasionally he said 'John'. Did he think he was there?

_Snap._

Both Sherlock and John looked around, suddenly panicked. Irene had indeed told them that they would be 'kidnapped', and yet hearts suddenly found themselves turning to drums and thundering in their chests. Sherlock did a double take; first looking into the blinding dark and then at the man who he thought was right beside him. 

"Weren't you..?" he mouthed, gesturing to the space beside him. John shook his head, looking quite annoyed. Sherlock took a sharp inhale of breath through his teeth. This seemed to happen quite often. 

From the abyss came a figure clad in gothic dress, leaping out to mask the unsuspecting Watson. A bag was forced over his head as he was dragged away, kicking and struggling despite knowing this was alright. Sherlock was next; ambushed from behind. It took two to get him down and hold him together - even then resulting in a hit to one's ribs. Drastic action had to be taken with the curly haired lunatic, and they were forced to put him to sleep with an injection to the side of his neck. 

Thrashing turned to squirming and squirming turned to stillness. 

Screaming turned to mumbling and mumbling turned to silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!


	3. Undead

Lights were too bright for newly opened eyes, leaving him to shield them with a hand. It was a cold white light, not warm; the sort to make anyone look ghostly. Looking around, it seemed to be like a morgue. But without the corpses. He was placed upon an icy marble slab, but with a pillow beneath his head. Some form of luxury was better than none. A sense of vulnerability washed over him as he realised that vision was blurry and in the distance he could scarcely see anything; it was a gloomy mess of blobs and nothing more. Sitting up, the world tilted alarmingly and he felt sick.

A hand lay him to rest, giving small mumbles of disapproval. The way it was done reminded him of something Mrs Hudson had done when he was ill - or dare he say, it reminded him somewhat of a motherly gesture. Slurring words, he tried asking who was there. His voice came out like John's had earlier, much to his surprise. How strong had the sedative been? A familiar yet.. different voice replied.

"Me. Molly made me watch you," it was John, but hearing his voice when he wasn't sobbing or screaming made it sound unfamiliar.

Molly? Oh dear. Sherlock and Molly... they had history. As he did with Irene. They had gone further, however, but things ended messily one drunken night when Sherlock had admitted to preferring the vampire. No words had been spoken between them since. Unaware to himself, Sherlock had gulped and gone quite pale. Quizzically, John had raised an eyebrow, but not questioned the look on his face. Brushing curls back from his face, Sherlock tried sitting up again. It wasn't as dizzying of an experience like last time, so he stayed upright. 

Through the cold hallway came a sharp _tap tap tap_ of heeled boots. Ones all too familiar to Holmes. Molly appeared from the dark, a stormy look on a usually nervous face. Her lab coat was a pristine white, without a single crease; clearly brand new. Arms were crossed as her expression set firmer on her features.

"Sherlock,"

"Molly," he croaked. "It's... nice to see.. you?" he mumbled, at quite a loss for words. The detective wasn't quite sure as to what was appropriate at this time. Molly gave a hum, turning to send him a glaring glance as she walked somewhere more comfortable. A ponytail bobbed along with her, far friendlier than the head it lay on.

The room was silent for a moment; filled with questions but none were spoken. Mouths were opened to say a word, but soon shut for fear of that word being unwanted. John eventually cleared his throat and clutched at crutches, leaning on them quite heavily as he got up.

"How's your leg?" asked the detective, his deducting failing him. John sighed.

"Better. Next time maybe, use your eyes, though?" John looked down at the crutches, then at his bandaged leg. Sherlock turned his head away, embarrassed. Hobbling away, John chuckled. The detective was well known, but no one had ever seen pictures of him looking embarrassed. He'd have something to brag about once this was all over.

-

Papers were scattered over a coffee table with coffee stains. Even some of the papers had developed the stain of a mug already. A group of people were busy picking them up, scanning over them with keen eyes, then placing them back down. Perhaps a few notes would be written, or someone would point something out. But overall it was mess. The police didn't seem to have much evidence, in all honesty. Blood had been cleaned away too quickly, fingerprints were covered with those investigating, not many pictures had been taken, many object that were suspicious had gone 'missing', and the bodies were still being analysed. Only a few had been identified - none being Mary Morstan, or Mary Watson as she was now. 

Molly was busy showing things to John, having heard he'd been in the military and had done some detective work himself after that, before becoming a doctor. He seemed quite keen, looking at the way windows had been broken, if there were any claw marks, signs of struggle on the few photos of bodies they had... he was quite helpful, really. And being a witness he described what he'd seen; a midnight beast with muscled limbs and dense fur. He'd also noticed the fur was matted and there seemed to be wounds beneath - possibly infected from the smell it held. Drool dribbled from it's muzzle, breathing was harsh and ragged; it hadn't seemed healthy. But that hadn't left it helpless. It ravaged through everything; windows, walls, doors, people... it just kept going. 

When asked what happened to Mary, John explained - as best he could without getting overly emotional - that he hadn't seen her dead. But he'd heard her scream, scream his name, before an ear splitting thud came from the staircase. When he'd scrambled to see what was going on, the beast was entering their bedroom, dragging her along on the floor. Before he could call the police he'd been the one thrown about, his leg being a favourite place to grab.

"And were you bitten?" Molly said suspiciously. She didn't want a lycan in her facility, not with the full moon a few days away by now. John shook his head furiously, although he looked unsure. He was sure it hadn't bitten him - although it had nuzzled at flesh mischievously. What if it had? No, it couldn't have. _It hadn't._

As John replayed the moment in his head numerous times, silence fell. Heads were lifted and after that no one moved. John was left to awkwardly turn around in the chair he had been placed. The doorway held a messy Sherlock; hair fluffy, eyes dark, clothes ruffled. He looked as stern as ever, however, figure held straight and proud, hands behind his back. Walking in as if nothing was wrong, he nodded at Molly, who nodded back, and began looking at what was displayed on the table. Awkwardly, people began doing whatever they had before. A young man offered Sherlock coffee, hands shaking as he did so. The detective took it without thanks and began skimming over papers again, leaving the other to stand there awkwardly before excusing himself. Molly grumbled at this.

A low chatter filled the room once more, releasing the tension that once held everyone captive. Molly had no more questions to ask, and nothing more to tell, so she left John alone, knowing that Sherlock would want his own questioning later. She retreated to her own room; through empty hallways and perhaps the occasional face. Everyone seemed to know her, giving a friendly smile. She returned it, but quickened her pace with ever person she came across. Fumbling with keys, her door was swung open and slammed shut. The light switch remained untouched as she collapsed onto the floor and cried. Sherlock's face had brought out so many memories; memories buried deep into her library and hidden with lock and key. But the detective seemed to have that very key, the key she thought was gone forever. The walks in the park on cold autumn evenings, watching movies and laughing at Sherlock's over analysation of every scene, nights spent wrapped in each other's arms... and it had all been ruined one night when they'd had a little too much fun after a particularly difficult case. Well, she certainly knew another particularly difficult case; Sherlock Holmes. And no one could ever solve it.

Hearing footsteps come from the hallway, she quickly covered her mouth with her hand. Cursing her breath for making such obvious hiccups, she waited for it to die down. Soon enough whoever it was passed out of earshot, meaning they couldn't hear her. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as tears were swept away. Where were the tissues? Her hand crept up the wall to flip the switch. Eyes that had adjusted to dark were rather overwhelmed with the sudden light, liking taking sunglasses off after a day at the beach. The room was uncomfortably silent. She put the television on to have some background noise as she roamed through drawers and boxes for something to dry her face with. However, her search quickly came to an end as a young blonde reporter in a tight black dress spoke a name that sparked her attention.

"... Lestrade was the hero of yesterday; the man that confronted Sherlock Holmes. After previously stating that he had nothing to do with the speeding car, he wasn't questioned. And now he's been proven guilty for being an accomplice of the 'great' detective less than twenty four hours later. Greg Lestrade will indeed be questioned and thrown behind bars where he belongs. It really was quite surprising this wasn't discussed earlier..."

Her speech continued, but Molly wasn't interested. Greg had been caught. Their cover was starting to crumble. He had connections with her. What if she was questioned? What if the facility was searched? They had to move. _Quickly._

Now she was hurrying away from her room, leaving the reporter to lie to the room instead of Molly herself. A certain clean labcoat caught air and floated behind her in a ghoulish manner as she stormed to the room with the runaways, begging that she wouldn't slip or fall in her heels. Bursting into the room, she hardly had time to process the scene in front of her before speaking. John was silently sitting in the same place he had before, tears streaming down his face again. Sherlock was perched in front of him, like an owl watching a mouse far below. Both Holmes and Hooper spoke at the same time.

"Mary Morstan isn't dead,"

"Lestrade got arrested,"

And both of them stared at the other in disbelief, saying the same thing in unison.

"What?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated! Thanks for reading :D  
> Tomorrow will be the last daily chapter update! After that I'll try my best to post weekly :)


	4. Arson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last pre-written chapter! I don't know when I'll be posting the next chapter, but hopefully before the end of the week? I dunno. But I hope you enjoy!

A shocked silence absorbed the room, mouths gaping open in hopes of saying something. But nothing was quite appropriate. Sherlock decided to clear his throat and adjust his scarf, straightening up at the same time. John was left to tremble as silent tears rolled down his face, while Molly blinked; seemingly frozen, almost.

As quickly as silence took over, a frenzy occurred. Everyone started packing things up, giving nervous glances to the two stowaways, then to Molly, as if suggesting they need to leave. Now.

"How did you figure that one out?" asked Hooper eventually, strutting towards them. 

Sherlock gathered a few remaining papers from the table before they were snatched away. "Most other corpses have been identified and seen. There is absolutely no record of Mary's. And John never saw her dead. He simply assumed she was. And might I add," he showed Molly a certain picture. It was gloomy with bad lighting, but even then you could tell there was- "Hardly any blood. John identified it as his own home. Seeing as all the other attacks were so brutal, we could tell it wouldn't hold any respect nor caution for a pregnant woman. Blood would be smeared all over the walls and-"

"Enough, Sherlock," croaked John, still staring at nothingness. Molly comfortingly placed a hand upon his own, giving a nod to Sherlock. 

"She's most likely not dead," concluded the detective. "But what do... we do?"

Molly gave an uncertain sigh, turning her head to look down. "I'm... not quite sure. But you can't stay here. We have at least a few days before Lestrade has to crack, so we'll plan and evacuate," the last part was mumbled slightly as she sucked in her bottom lip, looking around at the chaos. Everyone was everywhere, collecting notes and any evidence they had collected. This room would eventually be entirely empty, seeing as people were also packing up chairs for some reason. Sherlock nodded.

"Do you have any samples from the scene I could use?"

They left John to gather his thoughts as Molly led Sherlock to their laboratory, where experiments had been left to bubble and fizz on their own accord. She showed him a vile of blood, tufts of fur, there were even fragments of teeth and claws. Quickly he got to work, dipping them in various liquids, seeing how they'd react, and scribbling things down on a piece of paper he had brought with him. Molly felt she would be shoed away at any moment, so she saved her dignity and left on her own accord. 

Click, click, click.

Tap, tap, tap.

Quite startled, Molly turned her head sharply. There was a small pop; her neck hadn't quite been ready to perform such an action. It was only John; his crutches making the metallic noise. He asked where Sherlock was and followed him into the lab, despite Molly's warnings that he worked alone. She didn't hear 'get out' or anything of the sort, and so she left them alone.

Everywhere seemed quite quiet, startlingly so; a frigid air sweeping through hallways. Once, happy chatter would fill the air, friendly faces would bob along to their quarters. Yet in minutes all was gone. A graveyard, filled with souls that lay in silence. Seeing there was nothing much to do, Molly went and gathered her own things, sniffling silently. 

-

Two days passed. Most had left the premises, leaving a final few to put the evacuation plan to action. The building was to be burned; set up as an accident. Clues were to be left, some bodies that were already a few days old, maybe some science equipment, anything to make it look as a tragedy rather than a set up. 

John and Sherlock seemed to be friends by now. They worked together, finding clues and making theories. So long as the subject of Mary was avoided, all was well between them. Another thing to note was that his leg had healed startlingly well and startlingly _quick_. He no longer needed crutches, and only walked with a small limp. The mound of bandages had been replaced by a simple plaster to stop any dirt from entering the tender fresh skin. Sherlock had asked to take a sample from the wound, just in case DNA still remained. He had a suspicion that maybe he had been bitten, but the results for anything of the sort had come back negative. The detective stood staring at them, puzzled. Something was wrong with them. But he couldn't see _what_. In his thoughts, John managed to sneak up on him.

"Everything alright, Sherlock?" he asked, peering at the screen. Sherlock quickly made a move to cover it, frantically nodding his head.

"Yes, perfectly alright. Tea? Shall we have some tea?" blurted Holmes. John looked a bit confused, politely going to decline when someone suddenly burst through the door. Molly stood there, looking a bit red-eyed and miserable.

"No time for tea this morning," she sighed, slouching slightly. "You have to go. We all do. This place is getting burnt in a couple of minutes,"

Despite already knowing this would happen, the two men looked surprised. Time had seemingly flew by as they worked, leaving the sudden announcement quite a surprise. They quickly put anything of value into a large suitcase as Molly lovingly stroked the doorframe. She had worked here for the past three years, working up her way to be the most important in the building. Now it was all gone. Or it would be.

Quickening their pace, all three hurried to the exit. John had originally offered to carry the case, but Sherlock had insisted that he do it, seeing that John was injured still. Molly hissed for them to hurry up; she didn't particularly fancy being turned to crisps. And so off they scurried to the safety of the woods once more. It was drizzling, not exactly the best weather to set a building alight, but at least it lessened the chance of a forest fire. Molly gave one last look at the place she had learned to love, despite the smell of chemicals and the coffee being quite revolting. In her final goodbyes, she noticed John lagging behind, eyes squinting as he rubbed at his temple.

"Are... are you alright?"

"Yeah I'm fine," he said with a small nod. "Just not too keen on the smell," he added after an uncertain pause. Molly understood, but something made her feel something else was at fault.

Once a safe distance away from the soon-to-be-fireball, Sherlock stopped. "So where are we going? Or, what are we doing?"

"Well," Molly grinned ever so slightly. "You're getting disguises, and going on a train to the countryside. Wales!"

Sherlock grimaced. He wasn't fond of the country or makeovers. Perhaps Molly's grin was because she knew all too well what he'd be made to look like. In the distance a crackling sound was to be heard, as small little fiery sparks flew through the sky on a gust of wind. A giant campfire was warming the area, giving a comforting glow in the rainy day. Molly gave a sad sigh, her grin gone. Sherlock, in a surprising act of compassion, lightly pat her shoulder. There was no time to mourn her second home, however; they had to trek on. So through the mud they went, avoiding the deathly grip of clawed trees. 

-

By the time they were ready to board their train, appearances were drastically different. Sherlock definitely had a reason to be worried earlier; he was dressed as an old man. Dark curls had been turned grey, and his clean shaven face was adorned by a wiry beard. With the art of makeup, he had emphasised wrinkles, sunken eyes, and more mellow features. Steely blue eyes still had the unmistakeable spark of youth, however. He could put on a good wobbly croaky voice, and force his hands to shake as if years of use had worn away at nerves quite convincingly. At first glance, nothing was suspicious about him. John had been decorated to look far younger than he was - or at least, someone attempting to look young. Hair was dyed black, making him look quite pale. Instead of layers of button up shirts, he had a leather jacket on, as well as faded jeans. To add to his appearance, he was chewing gum. John had never been overly fond of gum, but this time the strong flavour and scent made him feel fairly nauseous. Not that he told anyone, of course. Molly would not be joining them, and so there was no need for her to get her own look. 

A mischievous giggle escaped her lips when she saw him, an embarrassed blush forming on her cheeks. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes. 

"Nice shirt, grandad," smirked John, despite it looking like something he'd usually wear. Again, Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

They had been given tickets and the simple instruction of 'don't seem like yourself'. Sherlock could do it quite easily, and everyone was aware of this, but John was something they worried about more. However, he could form quite a convincing American accent for himself, leaving himself safe from detection. 

Getting on the train was surprisingly easy. No questions had been asked, luggage was allowed to be kept, everyone just thought that John was this man's son, who had moved to America then come back to bring his father to Wales for whatever reason. Not suspicious in the slightest. It was when they entered their carriage that things had began going wrong.

John got fidgety and even paler, having to eventually spit out his gum. Sherlock was too absorbed in reading some new case files they had been given. It discussed how people had died; blood loss or blunt force trauma was most common. Only a few had been killed instantly, leaving it a fact that this wasn't an expert. Some corpses were still missing; including Mary's, leaving his theory strong. He only noticed John didn't look all that well when he went to point out a few new details to him.

"The corpses are all mutilated in different ways. See how - John?" started the detective, stopping suddenly noticing the shade of the other's face. John was staring out of the window, skin a somewhat olive colour and slicked with sweat. "Do... are you alright? Do you get travel sick?"

John shook his head, giving a shaky sigh. Outside the gloomy weather was no comfort, a steady drizzle slowly evolving to a downpour. Sherlock decided not to press it, and just left him alone. Perhaps that was the first mistake of the night.

Eventually John fell asleep, his face returning to a reasonable colour as he did so. Although perhaps a bit flushed, if Sherlock was to assess it. He wondered if he had a fever, or did indeed get travel sick but was afraid to admit it.

Perhaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated :>  
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fInALlY!  
> Hopefully gonna go for weekly updates? Dunno, school bites my ass.  
> Kudos and comments are appreciated, and I hope you enjoy!

_It was dark, there were claws, pain, so, so much pain, and the blood... it was filling his mouth and dripping down his throat. A foul tasting liquid was choking him and he could do absolutely nothing to stop it; just sit there helpless. Screams were echoing in his ears as if someone was right beside him, shouting directly into the suddenly sensitive area. He tried tearing the voices out; make them stop. But he simply heard a metallic sort of scraping and more blood pouring from the side of his head. Knees were raised and tucked to his chest as he curled in on himself - just anything for some sort of comfort, warmth..._

_Anything._

_When his spine started to fold itself into something new he attempted to run away from himself, but found that he crashed down onto the floor instead, followed by pesky limbs that were following suit. Cracks were audible like lashes from a whip, although red stripes on tender skin were currently the least of his worries. Noises continued to bounce off walls and into his ears as if they were thunder; a continuous and relentless pattern. Although they were beginning to sound... familiar? How so?_

_A voice?_

_Were those words?_

_"John?"_

"John! _John!"_

They were indeed words - words spoken by the one and only Sherlock. The noises that filled the room were coming from John; harsh, guttural screams that sounded as though his throat had been rubbed raw with sandpaper. After a moment or two, it felt like that too. He wasn't tucked up in a corner, his limbs were sprawled on the floor - oh _god,_ his limbs were _twisting._ Bones were cracking and re-forming, but so slowly he could feel every single movement; the grind as they moved to new placements. With pleading dark eyes he looked up at the unfamiliar face with eyes that didn't fit.

" _Fuck-_ " he hissed, voice raspy and startlingly quiet in a loud box. "What's happening? God- _Sherlock-"_

Lips parted and breathing harsh, the figure in the corner gripped at his arms with slender fingers. After digging his nails into the skin, he could deduct that this was indeed happening.

Right now.

John Watson, a man who's case had come on impossibly quickly and escalated at a rapid pace, was morphing into something far more complex and troublesome. He needed this man, alive and well, to help him solve it - and now he was on the floor turning into a bloody _werewolf._ Bloody being an accurate word, in this description. Murky grey carpets had been - unwillingly - dyed a vivid crimson; walls would be stained for quite a while, the strongest of bleach unable to break it's spirit. 

With Sherlock's extensive knowledge of lycans, he could easily tell you - just like regular wolves - they were creatures that thrived in families, friend groups, communities; a pack. Once there were many packs populating the area; the larger, the better. Strength in numbers. However, due to a limited amount of wolves, extreme measures were taken to gain members. Innocent people were bitten, and whilst some safely made it into their new home, others died right after the bite. Some managed to escape and died an agonizing death a month later. Then there were the few, the oh-so-very few that became lone wolves. This 'trend' quickly gained traction and every year, deaths rose; like a flower coming into bloom. Just like a flower, there had to be an end. 

That end was Sherlock. 

He forced bright cherry petals away from the bud, plucking them away until the flower was bare. On the ground they wilted until nothing remained. Packs were now scarce and usually thin, however there was the occasional family of bure-blooded beasts that went back centuries. In any community these families stood out, for they were proud and bold. Their own separate flowers. Some talked of the time with a darkness in their tone and a glint in their eye, teeth turning sharp and a growl vibrating in their throat. Others talked of it with shame, either because they felt as though it shouldn't have gotten so bad, or because it shouldn't have happened. Tones varied with opinions. Most, however, agreed it was a good thing.

Sherlock had never seen a lone wolf's first transformation before, he simply knew it was a time consuming experience, not to mention painful. Of course the movement of bones and muscle would hurt, he thought; why would anyone imagine it otherwise? However an increasing amount of the population believed it to be fluid and without effort, some even saying it brought the creature pleasure. With experience, this could be true, although it remained uncomfortable. Information about the shifts were scarce seeing as lycanthropes preferred not to talk about it. Perhaps Holmes could extract some feedback from-

He slapped himself at that moment, realising he'd been drawn into his own thoughts as per usual. John's face was becoming increasingly pale, his eyes glassy. Once rugged and rapid breaths were now shallow and worryingly scarce. His movements had began to falter; just trembles and twitches.

Most didn't live because they couldn't cope with the pain or they lost too much energy at the start. Blood loss could also contribute. Packs stopped this, because the creatures draw energy from each other. The boost would help the shift along, and although it would still be time consuming, the new wolf could heal itself faster and loose less of the vital fluids it needed, leaving it not-dead. Sherlock truly panicked then, realising how... vacant the other currently looked; as if he was already dead, almost. He spluttered and alerted Sherlock that he - in fact - was _not_ dead.

Just on his way there. 

"Shit," he muttered, kneeling down and taking John's pulse. In about five minutes it would be non-existent.

No, wait...

Make that three.

"John? John, can you hear me?" he moved his head so it wasn't thrown back in such a way. Blood trickled down his chin. With a sigh, fearful eyes moved to indicate he was looking at Sherlock. Yes, he could hear him. Sherlock ran a hand down his face. "I- I don't know what... I don't know what to do, John. You're dying," a small whimper came from the floor at the statement. "You know I don't sugar-coat things. You have lost..." he looked around the room. "Quite a bit of blood. I'd imagine you're confused, so I'll put it simply: you're a werewolf. It seems you were bitten after all. Tonight is a full moon and this is your first transformation, but it's taken it's toll on your body. You have no pack, no family - no one to guide you through it. This is how most lycanthropes die, John. The transformation has stopped since you have no more energy. The toxins are backing up into your system instead of flooding the body. It's like an overdose, I suppose. It has nowhere to go. Your heart shall stop and you will die, unless the system receives a fresh flood of adrenaline," swiftly, he stood up, and paced towards the window. "We have no adrenaline. But..." his hand was splayed onto the window. "We have plenty of adrenaline inducing situations that could come into play. We've become quite good friends, haven't we John?" he glanced at the man who's breath was escaping in short bursts.

With his fist, he threw a punch at the glass. It shattered like a fresh burst of tears, screaming as it fell with a clatter. "We are on a bridge above a lake. I can swim, but the shock and the cold may leave me prone to drowning. I could die, John."

Humid air was now frigid, a sucking noise making the place feel like a vacuum of air had just formed. Sherlock's face of makeup had mostly peeled off, and in his haze John mistakenly thought it was his skin. He began to wonder how that had happened - and why his hair was falling off in a big clump, but leaving shiny chocolate curls on his head. Cheeks were tinted a delicate pink, and made painfully obvious by his pale skin. Following the sharp lines of his face, he traced the knives of his cheekbones to a delicate mouth with criminally soft looking lips; ones the same shade of his cheeks. 

The damned bastard was smirking, as if this were all a game. John wished he could growl and tear his throat out. There was no way he'd fit through the window - there's no way he'd risk his life for a plan that may not even work - _there's no way he'd risk his life for him._

And yet, with the grace of a cat, he leapt back and pointed his arms like a streamlined swimmer, before diving out of the death-trap. John's breath caught in his throat. His heart began to race, fighting against his ribcage for freedom. The dark that invaded his vision was replaced by _everything_ \- all the little details, every movement, and the pain in his body sparked and ignited like a flame to gasoline. Clawing his way from the floor and to the window, teardrop glass cut at his shoes. Looking down, he saw a dark head of flattened curls bobbing along, then plunging down out of sight. He screamed, hands planting onto the window frame and into glass. Biting his lip at the sudden rush of pain it caused resulted in more bloodshed - since when where his teeth like a damned _cats?_

An all too familiar pulsing sensation formed behind his eyes, slowly spreading like wildfire to _everywhere._ Curling in on himself, he shrieked and cursed until his tongue could fall off; with the amount of times he'd bitten it, that wasn't entirely unlikely or impossible. Tearing skin and grinding bones were a horribly awful sensation, as well as that of his _skull reforming to hold a muzzle._

Keeling over and just hugging himself whilst waiting for this to end felt like forever. But if he somehow managed to concentrate enough, he could hear water splashing below and muffled yelps. The train was speeding along - if he didn't hurry up then he'd never bloody _find him._

Long before he should have, dragging heavy limbs that weren't his, he forced himself off the floor again. His mind screamed at himself not to, but he barrelled towards the wall. It creaked, complaining that it wasn't built to withstand this. The half wolf ignored this and forced it to comply, relentlessly hitting and hitting as more wolf clawed at his insides. Everything hurt; a blinding pain that he could never describe with words. 

_Crack._

**Author's Note:**

> If you wanna see other stuff on my Wattpad, I'm Pastel_Teeth  
> Thanks for reading!


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